The Bigger Fish
by HowAboutThisForAName
Summary: A cynical Englishmen with a rather contradictory ability to survive arrives on the shores of the former USA, and is none too impressed with what he finds. Regardless he attempts to make the most of it, even if he has to shoot everyone he meets along the way.


The first thing I'd noticed were the buxom whores, the second a rabble and plethora of people taking up dock space like it was going out of fashion, and finally the Cathayan Boatman's insistence on me leaving his vessel. 'Twasn't that I had taken long so much as the fact he hated me, but then again sleeping with his daughter would likely have that affect.

The Bigger Fish.

It had been a while since I'd used my real name, at least in spoken language, going by my orthonym had proven inefficient in illustrating my tendencies and didn't serve much of a conversation starter either, something I'd been noted for apparently; Ashbel Fairbairn. No it didn't ring many bells nor did it sound particularly intimidating, which was problematic in a post apocalyptic world where the most prominent career paths included raiders and the people that killed those in the previous category.

Rather than be beset with a compendium of questions I'd rather not answer most days I went by the nickname that had been appropriated to me some years ago after I'd survived a trio of shotgun shells to the chest, Zombie. It wasn't flattering, and it didn't quite make so much sense as the Ghouls that were interspersed within the crowds, irradiated people from before the war that had been mutated to live fairly what appeared to be infinite amounts of time in spite of the fact it also cost them their flesh and skin, and indeed most Ghouls looked like the storybook monsters I was named after with muscle and even bone bare in some cases.

I'd travelled the breadth of Europe and barely escaped through the nuclear winter that had trapped the Asian continent, mostly via the Cathayan boatman that now pushed off of dock, his junk an ancient thing that had survived the war and been thoroughly patched via scrap plating and what not, god knows it wasn't rare.

Now I'd landed on the West Coast of what had once been the apparently infallible United States, upon first being educated in that small, largely irradiated town on the outskirts of Bristol I'd been more than a little bit sceptical of their apparent persona, not that the People's Republic was much better. A colonial democracy stockpiling thousands of nuclear warheads in the hopes of 'keeping the peace'? Now that's what I called the definition of hypocrisy, but I digress.

The name of this place was lost to me until I asked what looked to be a local law enforcement official -the Cathayan boatman had decided to drop me off early rather than my intended locale- and he laughed at my insolence for some time before citing through deprecating laughter that I had made shore in Adytum, Angel's Boneyard.

I told him it sounded like shit, he punched me in the throat.

After he'd strode off and I'd gotten over my first assault in the former US of A, I brushed off, fixed my jacket and adjusted my trilby. Gazing at the skyline, I saw the small figures crawling over them like ants, some fixed, others not, and even though this was apparently a large population centre -as hinted by the hundreds of people walking by- there was still the underlying resonance of gunfire off in the distance that marked this place as having not escaped nuclear fire. You know, if the scrap houses and Ghoulified settlers hadn't been a give-away.

The street before me was a dusty track where the road had been uprooted, having that ever so slight wild west appeal only spoilt by neon signs and a distinct police force, which -as I'd discerned from the breast of the soldier that had throttled me somewhat- I recognised as the NCR, though their full name still sat mystery. The dock I stood upon seemed almost a gateway, a collection of cement pathways interspersed with scrap bridging and rotted gangplanks, accosted by ships of all types. Framing the aforementioned road were two huge cement buildings, and I was inclined to approach one given that's what a stern look from a guard between the two seemed to indicate.

Procedures, had to love them in some slightly masochistic fashion; you didn't want to do it, but you didn't want to stay on the docks. God only knew how many times I'd thrown up while aboard the Chinaman's ship.

Shouldering my duffel, I strode towards a small glass window intersected with the building rightmost of the two, where I found a mildly portly man sitting there tapping the desk in boredom, "Welcome to Boneyard, under governance of the New California Republic, how may I serve you?" he droned, voice the most broken thing I'd heard since the boat's motor had busted in the middle of the Pacific.

"Uh... I'd like to go through?" I queried, and he tapped a pen's end as to allow it's tip to appear, and pulled free a copy of some official form that set me alight with frustration; procedures were one thing, paperwork was another.

"Are you a New California Republic citizen?" he asked, and I shook my head. But realising he had his gaze down on the paper, head craned completely away from me, I was forced to speak.

"No," I answered slowly, a tinge of doubt colouring the word rather sourly.

He flicked his vision up, then brought the hand holding the pen to his mouth, clearing his throat and placing the paper aside, "That makes things easier," he assessed, and I cocked my head in question. He in turn placed both hands together and gave me a hard look, neck flab folding as he leaned his chubby head forward, "we are currently refusing admission to the state of any non-citizen lest they can produce a warrant of trade or other such documentation. You haven't got any I presume?" he stated slyly, the wisps of a dirty grin beginning to appear on his face.

I suddenly felt very angry, and had half a mind to draw my luger on him were I not surrounded by a contingent of armed security. Thus I tried to keep my cool and instead persisted in keeping things civil though all I wanted to do was shoot the glass out and punch the glorified receptionist in the face, "May I ask why?"

The portly man harrumphed, obviously as amused by my stupidity as the NCR trooper had been, "Security's been compromised, we've got Enclave remnants to the north, Legion savages to the east and south, pirate to the west. You're a slick foreigner with a nice hat and an accent, you could be any of them."

"That seems racist," I observed sombrely, before looking over my shoulder, "then what can I do?"

"You can leave or be submitted to processing," the desk worker asserted, and I sighed in frustration. I had not spent three months on a foul smelling tub just to have some fat American ascertain that I wasn't allowed within the shambles of a country he worked in, "then again... There is a third option..." the man added suddenly, looking away sheepishly before drumming the desk.

I tried not to be pessimistic, but so far this trip was turning out less than I had hoped for, considering I'd been here for all of ten minutes and been accosted by what was supposed to be an enforcer of the law and shaken down for cash by a desk worker. I patted my pocket, feeling the caps jingle precociously. Bottle caps had replaced the basic currency worldwide as they were the more numerous item lying around that was small enough to substitute the common coin.

"You're a tosser, I hope you realise," I grumbled, subtly pulling free a small bag of caps and throwing it on the desk.

He grimaced at that, but still allowed me through, flicking a switch that had the red lights astride the building turn green, and I quickly stalked off angrily past the NCR guardsmen there in anger.

"Muppety prat," I hissed, glaring down and around the street, "I need a drink."

A saloon presented itself, and though I could feel the heat below my cheeks and see the shake of my hands, it came as a surprise -or it would later on- that I thought it would be a good idea to indulge in something that would make me less rational. I'd been known for my temper where my sheer ability to survive had failed, but both of these traits were largely overshadowed by the tales that had been told across Europe and Asia of the drunken trilby and his hilarious exploits.

Were it any other time in the day I'd want to avoid painting that image to the locals, but retrospection always gave cause for regret, and that's something I eventually figured out I'd be doing a lot of on this journey, but now I'm getting ahead of myself.

…

**Only this chapter will be this short, the rest I hope to write with at least three thousand words a piece.**

**As for those people that were waiting on Across the Pond, I found personally that that piece was a dislocated load of garbage plagued with bad planning and too many story points. Complexity is one thing, stories running alongside each other that have no connection is another, as of such that is officially on hiatus until I decide I care about it again. Which is very likely to happen, but only in the far future.**

**The premise of this is a lot more stable, and I figured that OCs can still be welcome as long as you don't mind them dying a lot. PM me if you want to submit a character, but just know that I'm going to be a lot harsher than what I previously was, and take that into account when writing up your fellow.**

**The idea for this actually came under the pretence of 'what would happen if everyone in my grade was in Fallout', and you'll be able to see that in a lot of the scenes within this. But enough of my ramblings, R&amp;R, and thanks for reading.**

**~Isaac.**

**P.S. I'll make sure Author Notes aren't this long in future, but I wanted to get that stuff out of the way.**


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